The Colour of Your Thoughts
by Biskitty
Summary: The soul becomes dyed with the colour of its thoughts. What if you could only see in black and white? What if the people you loved allowed you to see in colour? An Andrew-centric introspection.


This started out as a soulmate AU, where you only see colour when you meet your soulmate, but I adapted it a little.

* * *

His mother is the first person Andrew loves. How could it be otherwise? She gave birth to him, feeds him and loves him – of course he loves her before he is even able to think. His mother gifts him the colour green.

His father is the next person he loves. Not there as much as his mother, but a comforting, shadowy presence at the edge of Andrew's fuzzy, baby-vision. A rumbling voice that sooths as large hands hold him against a broad shoulder. His father gives him the colour blue.

He thinks he perhaps likes blue the best. Blue is the colour of the sky and Andrew loves the sky. He wants to fly, wants it more than anything – dreams of soaring through the endless blue. He lies on the grass, staring at the sky whilst his father fishes, and his mother paints. _One day I will fly._

He is a happy child, very hail-fellow-well-met with almost anyone, so he is surprised, and disappointed when no new colours appeared when he goes to school. He is seven when he questions his mother about it. "There's a difference, Andrew, between 'like' and 'love'. Colours only come with love."

"So, they take time then, Mummy?" Andrew skips slightly as he walks at his mother's side.

"Well, not always. Sometimes a colour can just appear when you meet someone, other times it can creep up on you slowly." Andrew nods. That seems to make some kind of sense. Hasn't he always seen Mummy and Daddy's colours? That brings a new question to mind.

"What colour is Daddy to you, Mummy?" She smiles down at him.

"Ah, now you see. When you fall in love with someone, there's more to it than just a colour. That kind of love adds shades to everything you see." Andrew frowns.

"Shade?" He doesn't understand. Is 'Shade' a colour?

His mother points at the trees above. "What colour are those Andrew?"

He looks at the trees. Mummy knows he could only see two colours, so she knows he knows what colour the trees are. "They're green!" he said.

"Are they all the same kind of green?" His mother's voice is gentle, but Andrew feels that he is missing something.

"Yes…" he says doubtfully.

His mother's gaze is unwavering, locked on the shifting foliage. "For me Andrew, those trees, those leaves are all different types of green." He stares at her, fascinated by the idea that there could be different 'types' of green. "Some are dark, some are golden, and some are a bright, bright green."

He looks at the leaves, trying to imagine something he has never seen. "Daddy did that for you?" his voice is breathless, wondering.

"Yes," his mother tears her gaze away to smile at him, "loving Daddy did that for me." Andrew decides then that he wants to see shades, he wants it more than anything – to see what his mother can see, different 'types' of green. _One day I will love someone like that._

When his mother dies, his green turns grey at the edges, dull and heavy, like the atmosphere in the house. His father seems to be moving through a swamp, slow and dragging, his usually quick thoughts and actions absent. Andrew feels that lost almost as keenly as the loss of his mother's bright presence. He wants to ask his father _are you alright? Are you going to be alright? Are_ _ **we**_ _going to be alright?_ But he can't formulate the words.

They are stood at the graveside – Andrew, bowed, limp flowers held in tightly clenched fists; his father, cold and inscrutable. And his mother, dead and gone with just cold stone to suggest that she'd ever existed at all. Andrew swallows the tears that threatened to fall. He is nearly a man now, he can't be a cry baby. He wishes, for just a moment, that his father would hold him and say _it's alright son_ but that isn't his father. Maybe once, but not now.

His father makes a move to go and Andrew knows he is supposed to place the flowers on the grave and leave with his father, but he can't – he just can't.

"Do you…" his voice cracks on the words and his father halts, mid turn. "Do you still see in colour?" The grey at the corner of his eyes has been haunting him – what if Dad…

His father is silent, in only the way that Dad can be – a silence that means something, but Andrew is too distraught to figure it out. "Dad?" The tears are there now, despite his best efforts, sliding hotly down cold cheeks.

A warm, large hand lands on his shoulder and squeezes. "I miss her too." His voice is as it always is, deep, comforting. Andrew's last defences crumble and he is pressing his face into his father's chest and his father is holding him tight whilst he cries. When the initial, aching sobs, give way to something quieter, he realises dad is stroking his hair, the way Mum had when Andrew was ill. He shudders, fresh tears escaping as he realises he will never feel that again, never hold his mother again or tell her that he loves he; _I love you!_ It's like a wail inside in his head, desperate in the knowledge that he had never said it enough and now never could.

"I miss her too," his father repeats, "I miss her." Andrew isn't looking at his father, but there is something in Dad's voice… A tear-filled glance upwards shows matching tears on his father's cheeks and Andrew knows – he **knows.** Hiding his face in his father's shirt once more, Andrew is certain of one thing. _I don't ever want to fall in love._

Rex is a good friend. He is respectful of Andrew after his mother's passing, but doesn't treat him with kid gloves either – he still teases him and makes jokes, something that the other boys seem scared to do. The change happens so gradually, it is some weeks before Andrew realises that the rugby shirt he is wearing is red. There is red too on Rex's cheeks, put there by exercise and a cold north wind. The gratitude he feels for Rex's uncomplicated friendship sharpens into something else, something more. He can't put a name to it, but he knows that Rex will stay with him forever, in the red of the roses in his father's garden, in the red of the paintings he sees in church. _A true friend._

Oxford is a beautiful city, even with only parts of it in colour. He misses the sea though, misses the blue. Here the only blue is the sky. The river has blue in it, but much of it is a murky grey. A colour he hasn't perhaps seen yet. Andrew realises that although he likes people a lot, he's slow to trust and slower still to love. His world stays mostly black and white, with hints of red, blue and green.

Sometimes he feels as though he's missing out, that there must be a glorious and beautiful world out there with all the colours of the rainbow (something he has yet to see in all its glory). Then Andrew remembers his father, how Dad seems to have dulled when his world did, and thinks that he could live with just a few colours. So, he keeps his distance whilst simultaneously being considered 'a jolly good fellow'. Oxford teaches him how to drink well, how to charm, how to flirt… He likes girls, women, always has and now he knows how to get what he wants without risking anything he's afraid to lose. If that makes him a bit of a cad, then so be it. He hasn't broken any hearts and he hasn't brought anyone's world into glorious technicolour, so no harm done.

Then the war starts, and finally he's flying. He had forgotten how sharp this dream had been once, until the first time he is in the air and looking down at the world below (so, so green – _oh Mum!)_ and he feels that want as clearly as if he were five years old again. His vision blurs and he knows he is crying, but he can't stop. _Just sheer joy. Free as a bird._

He dreads telling his father he has joined up, but Dad understands, which, if he had been honest with himself, he knew Dad would, but had somehow managed to convince himself that he would not. Training in Scotland is a grey haze, accentuated by the blue uniform and the blue sky. The weather is such that he sees little green. So, it is a relief when it is done, although he is anxious that he hasn't got a proper placement. Still, a chance to go home was not to be sniffed at. Seeing Dad in that tatty dressing gown made him smile. Andrew feels a warm rush of affection for his father, all sleep rumpled and indignant. He thought that he had never seen a blue as bright as his father's eyes.

Breakfast is fairly normal, apart from the discussion of his work and his tentative, halting questions about the last war. He knows that his father recognised his fear, but, typical Dad, does not confront him, or offer false comfort. "You get through it." _I just have to believe him._

"Get that would you? It's my driver." He'd said yes. Why wouldn't he? So he went to the door, opening it with the expectation of seeing a burly constable.

Sunshine. It was so bright, shining, _glowing_ , off blonde hair. He could only stare at the girl on the doorstep. He had met beautiful women before, beautiful in black and white, with touches of red, but this creature before him _glowed._ Of course, then he made a mull of it, first stuttering and stumbling and then a crass attempt at flirtation with a wholly unreceptive audience. His father saved him from completely humiliating himself, giving him a look that said _are you quite done_ to which Andrew's only response was a sheepish grin. As soon as they left, Andrew ran to his room to check his colour wheel. _Yellow._ Sam had given him yellow.

He likes Violet well enough, she is pretty and fun – she helps distract him from the horrible part of his life that sometimes felt like the only part of his life (sometimes he hated Rex for giving him red – _of all colours, it had to be red)._ Violet had been so named because that was the colour her mother had seen at her birth. This surprises Andrew, he didn't realise that colours could still appear even after you had fallen in love. Still, no hint of violet comes into his vision. He wonders if it would come with time, like red had with Rex and so lets things carry on much further than they should.

Seeing Sam again is surprise. He knows it is her the instant he sees her, even though she is bent over washing the tanker, with that creep Mr Bennett watching. She still glows, all sunshine and _yellow._ He loves the colour yellow, so bright and warm. To find out that she is here undercover concerns him. What is his father thinking? Sam isn't even a police officer. Andrew resolves to keep a close eye on her, as close as he can manage in the circumstances. He knows she is brave and clever, but in the drab, brown boiler suit, she looks small and vulnerable.

The dance at the Flamingo could have gone a lot better, Andrew has to admit, but seeing O'Halloran with his hands on Sam had just made him see red. All the anger he is feeling, about the Irish, about the war in general, just comes bubbling up to the surface and he lashes out. There is a savage satisfaction in seeing O'Halloran's ginger head snap back from his punch, although that doesn't lasted long before Andrew is doubling over from a punch to the gut.

Everything seems to go to hell from that moment onwards. Letting things go too far with Violet, Connie dying, his father interrogating him… Rex dying… Watching the plane go down, Andrew feels an agonising stab of hated that he could see the red of the flames that were engulfing the plane, could see that which is killing the friend who gave him that gift in the first place. He is grateful that his father knows when to talk and when to stay silent. He needs silence just then.

Red fades the way green had when his mother died. He is more afraid than ever to let anyone close. First Rex, then Douglas, and then, and then… When he can't find a place to land, when he accepts that this could be it, Andrew feels a sharp sting of regret that he will never see the other colours on the wheel, that he will never get the chance to see all the 'types' of colours there are in the world, _to see shades._

Waking up in the hospital is an anti-climax. He can't seem to find the right sort of emotions. He is numb and his world is faded – the cuts on his face are dark, almost black in places but not really red. His uniform is grey. His father's eyes are blue but washed out. Not like they would have been before...

Sam blinds him. She still seems to glow, even if the gold of her hair is muted. He lets her take him out simply because he doesn't have the energy to put up a fight. That fight comes when he realises his father has meddled. _Of course Dad would think he could solve this by throwing a pretty girl at me._ In his self-righteous anger, he ignores the pink that is climbing up Sam's cheeks in her distress and stormed off. He is able to hold onto that anger until his father confronts him and then he deflates like a pricked balloon.

He can't help but smile, seeing Sam all covered in oil at the MTC headquarters. The mustard headwrap and the stains do little to detract from her beauty and he feels more than a little relieved when she agrees to give him another chance. The colours in the film that he can see seem sharper than he has experienced for a while but that's nothing compared to the colour of the sky, of the plants, _of Sam_ as he walks her home. It feels so different to being with Violet – Sam gave him yellow after all and Violet had given him nothing, but there's more to it than that. He feels as though he is on a precipice and any minute he could fall, _or he could fly._

He isn't sure what he expected from the kiss, a fairy-tale whoosh perhaps and a sudden, kaleidoscopic swirl of colour. Instead the bottom falls out of his stomach and he feels more than a little giddy as he pulls back to smile at Sam. There is a delicate blush on her cheeks, which makes her freckles stand out across her nose. Sam ducks her head away when they part, shy but smiling. Andrew turns his face to the sky and admires the pale endless blue. _Much easier to appreciate from down here._

He shouldn't ask her to keep them a secret. It dulls her, takes away some of her sparkle. Sam is made to be an honest creature and he asks her to go against her nature. He regrets it but doesn't know how to fix things. Doesn't know how to fix anything. He just feels _so tired._ Everything is greying at the edges, even when he's with Sam and he's afraid of what that means. He tries, _tries so hard_ to see colour but it's slipping away, and he thinks his sanity is going with it. The night he goes AWOL, he wonders if this is it. Everything is just so grey and dull, and he knows if he goes back then there will be nothing but black and white and grey forever.

Sam, beautiful, bright Sam, doesn't send him away. She keeps him and holds him while he cries. When it's over, when he lies exhausted, crammed against the wall on Sam's too slim bed, he feels a final few tears slide across his nose at the realisation he can see the gold of her hair as she brushes it before the mirror. _Everything's not lost._

But he thinks maybe it is. Debden is nothing but grey. Training other pilots is safe, but dull and he is horribly conscious that he is sending them off to die. Letters from Sam help a little at first, but the months pass, and the war seems to stretch out in front of him like a yawning abyss, and colour fades from his life, leeching out like blood from a corpse. He wants something, _someone_ , to help him feel, help him see. _He wants Sam_ but she's not here, and he can't get leave to see her, and _he just wants..._

It's no excuse for what he does. The news that the last recruits hadn't made it past a month is no excuse, but he uses it as one to get drunk, and he uses that as an excuse to… He feels that now he has a good excuse to break up with Sam, who deserves so much better than him. So, he writes those hateful words, and worse, he sends them. As he steps into the mess and surveys the varying shades of grey, he thinks _I deserve this._

Malta is torture. So bright but colourless. Just light. He wonders if this how Sam would look if he was to see her now, and then he tells himself that he has no right to think of Sam at all. When the sinusitis hits, he thinks _well I deserve this too._ He has thrown away the colours that he has been given, the love that he has been given, it is only right that his sight gets buggered up too.

Home. There's bunting everywhere, and he imagines that it must be very colourful, but he can't remember what colour looks like. Dad's not home so he wanders to the river. It's a Saturday morning after all. He walks the familiar paths, no longer green but grey and tells himself he should be grateful that he is here to see at all.

He's unprepared, it turns out, for seeing his father. He can only stand and stare for a moment as his father fishes, practiced hands on the rod and line. When he finds his voice, Andrew calls to him. He expects his father to turn around, which he does. He expects his father to stare, which he does. He even expects him to smile, just a little, which he does. He doesn't expect the surge of affection he feels swelling his chest or the blue that fades into his vision. His knees shake, and he just about holds it together. _I don't deserve this, but thank you._

Sitting in the armchair that night, he knows he owes his father an explanation. The tinges of blue in his vision wane and strengthen all night and he wants it to stay – now that he has it back, he's desperately afraid of losing it again. He asks Dad if it was worth it, a pointless question because he knows the answer. No matter the personal cost, it was worth it. _It had to be._

"How's Sam?" Another stupid question, if his father's raised eyebrow is anything to go by.

"Why do you ask?" A favourite trick of his father's, to answer a question with a question of his own. Andrew shrugs.

"Just wondering." He smiles, though it feels stiff and unnatural. He wonders if the lie is as obvious to his father as it sounds to him. When his father doesn't answer straight away, Andrew lets the smile slip and takes a sip from his glass. There's an audible sound of air as he misses the liquid and he turns his face away from his father, feeling suddenly ashamed. He has _no right_ to ask about Sam.

"You met somebody else, didn't you?" His father's voice, and face, is free of censure, but Andrew feels it anyway. This is always the case. Even when he had been little. His father would look at whatever mess he'd made and ask, in that perfectly even tone _what happened?_ And Andrew would find himself confessing all his sins.

"Yes, well," he clears his throat before he can continue, "didn't work out." He smiles again – he can't help it. Smiling has become his default way of keeping people at a distance, of escaping from conversations that are bordering on too personal. The smile slides from his face at his father's facial expression. The urge to confess rises to the fore and he chews the inside of his cheek, before blurting out. "Debden was bloody awful if you want the truth Dad, all grey and… grey." He panics, tries to reel it back in, "…drizzled the whole time and the only decent pubs were in Cambridge." His father just continues to look at him steadily. Andrew takes a deep breath and continues, "Kate was a nice girl, in the W.A.A.F." He hesitates then. Would his father believe him if he says he thought he'd been in love with her – no, Dad wouldn't believe that. "I used her Dad." The confession hurts, a little like picking a scab that wasn't ready. "I was unhappy, and I used her."

Dad takes a deep breath and then a long sip of his drink. Andrew looks at his own drink but doesn't take a sip – his hands are shaking and he's afraid he'll spill it if he tries. "What, er…" Andrew looks up as his father starts to speak. "What did you hope to achieve?"

It's not the question he was expecting, and he doesn't really know how to answer. "I, um… I…" He's afraid, afraid that his father will think even less of him if he tells the truth. The blue of his uniform catches his eye and he thinks, _I owe him the truth._ "I wanted… to do something so…" he swallows, "…so bad that… that Sam… that she would… would give up on me." He can't look at his father, shame burning his cheeks. He feels compelled to go on. "I was unhappy, I thought she deserved better than someone like me, so I did something unforgivable." There's something freeing about this confession, he feels lighter… but also heavier as he waits for his father's judgement.

Andrew shifts uncomfortably under his father's intense gaze. He tries to think of a way to distract him, but nothing comes to mind. His father glances away, down at the glass in his hand. "You asked me once if I could still see in colour."

Another bloody stupid and insensitive question. Seems he was full of them. "I'm sorry Dad." The apology is inadequate, but it's all he has.

His father shakes his head. "No, no. You had a right to ask." Andrew can't agree but his father is continuing, "The truth is, no, I couldn't. Not at the time." He swirls the remaining liquid in his glass. "Losing… your mother… it was difficult for me to see… how I was meant to go on."

There's a lump in Andrew's throat that refuses to move. He wants to reach out to his father, wants to stop him talking, wants to say _it's ok, you don't need to explain._ But Dad is… somewhere else, his gaze turned inwards, and Andrew can't reach him. "Grief. It, er, it weighs you down. Makes you feel like there's nothing else." His father suddenly snaps back to the present and fixes Andrew with that same, intense gaze. "You've lost an awful lot in this war."

Andrew shakes his head. "No more than anyone else." He shakes his head again. "I don't think it's grief, I…" _I don't feel enough to grieve._

His father's lip twitch in that way he has, like he can't decide to smile or frown. "Sometimes feels like nothing." Andrew frowns, tilts his head, confused. "Took a long time, after the last war, before I felt anything at all." Andrew hadn't wanted to remind his father of the last war, a subject that seemed distressing to him, so he hides his face in his glass. Still, a question comes to mind and it seems no less stupid than any of his others, so why not.

"What changed?" His father raises his eyebrow and Andrew clarifies, "After Mum…?"

His father's eyes smile – not, perhaps, the question he had been expecting. "I had you." The statement is blunt, as most are when they concern anything emotional. The lump is back in Andrew's throat and his father has gone a bit misty at the edges. Andrew blames the sinusitis.

"And now?" His voice croaks a little and he tries to hide it by clearing his throat.

Dad chews his lip for a moment and then tilts his head to the side, considering. "Now… it's dimmer than it was…" He bobs his head, thinking. "You afraid…?"

Andrew ducks his head again. "I've done some awful things."

His father finishes his drink and stands. "The war… Not your fault." Andrew shakes his head, _it is,_ but his father just curls his lip and moves to take his glass to the kitchen. As he passes Andrew's chair, he pauses and places his hand on Andrew's shoulder, squeezing firmly. "Not your fault."

Andrew feels 14 again. He wants to weep, wants to bury his face in his father's chest and cling to him until he can make it right again. But Dad _can't_ , so he _doesn't_.

His father lets go and continues towards the kitchen. "Andrew." Dad pauses, just before the kitchen. "Sam is alright. Still driving. Volunteers a bit for SSAFA." Andrew nods. "You…" His father is hesitant, not an unusual occurrence, but there's something about this silence that has Andrew turning to look at him. "You weren't very kind to her."

Andrew turns rapidly. "No." He chews his lip. "No, I wasn't." He downs the last of his drink. "Maybe I should leave her alone."

His father _hmmms_ before saying, "Her decision, wouldn't you say?" Andrew thinks about this as his father finally moves into the kitchen. _Sam's decision._

Walking to the SSAFA branch, Andrew is aware of colour fading into his vision –the pale blue of the sky, the grey blue of his uniform, the faded blue of an overcoat. Just blue, and a weak and pale imitation of the blue he had once known, but more than he ever dares hope for. He wonders if he will ever see another colour. _I don't deserve to._ That thought almost paralyses him, makes him stumble and hesitate. He nearly turns back, but his father's words keep him plodding onwards. _"Her decision, wouldn't you say?"_

It's another matter entirely to walk inside. He smokes three cigarettes, his fingers shaking so much, he accidentally burns himself. He ties and reties his shoelaces twice. Checks his watch five times.

"They're not that bad, really." Andrew's head jerks up in surprise. The man smiles at him as he finishes descending the steps. "I mean, women _are_ terrifying…" The smile becomes a grin at that, and Andrew finds himself reciprocating. "Especially when you've spent months living with just men." He's wearing a naval uniform.

"The trouble is," Andrew accepts the cigarette offered, anything to waste a bit more time. "I'm here for one in particular." The man's eyebrows raise as he lights his cigarette and then he leans in to do the same for Andrew.

"Poor bastard." The smile that accompanies this statement is full of male camaraderie.

Andrew blows the smoke out. "I deserve everything I get."

The man nods. "Don't we all." Andrew meets his gaze and sees there something that tells him that this man too, has done _some awful things._ The man then grins, although it doesn't quite meet his eyes and stubs out his finished cigarette. "Time to face the music, then." He winks. "Can't be worse than Jerry, eh?" Andrew thinks, _you clearly haven't met Sam Stewart._

He does, however, finally climb the steps when he finishes the cigarette, and cautiously steps inside. He first impression is of a large space made small. There are a couple of concerned women talking to worn-thin men. Andrew hasn't been able to look in the mirror properly for months – he wonders if he too, looks paper thin and about to break. Then he sees her. His heart aches when there's no accompanying flash of yellow, but she still _glows._ She's talking to a young man, who looks dazzled, as well he might, and Andrew can only stand and watch.

He forces himself to approach her when the dazzled man leaves. "I already have my £12." She stiffens at the sound of his voice, and his steps falter. "And my demob suit." The expression on her face as she turns to look at him is not encouraging. "Not that I think I will be wearing it. But I was told that you give advice?"

He can almost see her pull on the suit of armour. Her chin goes up and her jaw clenches. She sweeps past him, "When did you get back?"

"Yesterday." He can't keep looking at her, so fiddles with his cap.

"From Debden?" She's hanging clothes on the rail now, her back to him, but he can hear it in her voice, something hard and tight.

"No, I've been flying again. I was in Malta." His father hadn't told her. _She hadn't asked about him._ The thought is a bucket of cold water, leaving him breathless and shaking. What is he doing here? He should have left it alone!

" _Her decision, wouldn't you say?"_

"How are you?" She looks him in the face when she asks, and he thinks it may be genuine.

"Well, I need someone to talk to." His answer disappoints her, he can see it, even as she moves to the table and he thinks, _no, not here_ and _not someone,_ _I want to talk to you._ "I… I want to talk to you."

She hesitates just as she was about to sit down. "Well, I'm quite busy here." It's a blatant lie, there are other women and only a handful of men. He nods anyway and turns to go. "Andrew…" He'd forgotten what his name sounded like from her lips and he felt an odd tremor go through him. "I'm due to finish in 15 minutes."

For a minute he can't quite understand what she's saying. "Shall I…? Shall I wait outside?"

Her tone is dismissive, as she doesn't care either way, "if you like."

He chain-smokes another five cigarettes while he waits, needing something to do with his hands – needing something to stop him from running away. When Sam emerges, she seems almost surprised to see him there, as though she had expected him to run while he had the chance. He stubs out his cigarette and joins her when she starts to walk down the street.

They walk in silence. Neither of them discuss where they are going but turn towards the seafront. Andrew casts about in his mind for the right words but nothing is coming to him, and he is certain Sam won't speak until he does. There are too many people here, he finds it inhibiting. He wants to talk to Sam, but privately. She would never agree to go back to the house though.

He looks at the sea, blue-grey and then starts down the steps to the beach. Sam follows without question. It is quieter here, not the kind of day to have people flocking to the beach. Finally, they reach a stretch that is completely secluded. Andrew leans against the sea wall, and Sam mirrors him, staring out to sea.

"I want to apologise." The words come out without finesse, blunt and abrupt.

Sam's voice is equally clipped as she replies, "For cheating on me?"

He sucks in a breath. Something about the way she asks tells him that 'yes' would be the wrong answer. "Well, I am sorry for that." She huffs a breath and shifts away from the wall. "But." He speaks quickly, afraid she'll leave before he can explain. She hesitates. "What I really want to apologise for is the letter." She tilts her head, she's listening. "For… for making a choice that took away your choice." Her shoulders slump, and he knows that he's made the right choice. This time.

He turns his gaze back to the sea. "I was unhappy in Debden, which is no excuse I know, but I think I must have been a little mad. I." Sam appears in front of him and he jerks back. She's angry.

"Why didn't you say something? All those letters and you never said a word!" He can't look at her, not in the eye, his gaze dropping to her hands which are clenched tight around her handbag.

"How do you tell someone you love…" His voice catches, but he makes himself go on. "Tell them that you are so unhappy, that… that you've forgotten how to love them." His voice has sunk to a mere whisper as he confesses something he couldn't even tell his father.

It's Sam's turn to jerk back. "Forgotten how to love? What do you mean?" He shakes his head, unable, perhaps unwilling, to explain. "Andrew, I want to understand." Her voice becomes softer, more pleading. "Don't I deserve that?"

She couldn't have chosen a more effective question. She did deserve the truth. Andrew licks suddenly dry lips. "Everything was… grey. Is grey. I can't see colour anymore Sam." He lifts his head to look at her then and is nearly undone by the sympathy in her eyes. He rushes on. "You remember when I said it was like I had never met you?" A flash of hurt crosses Sam's face and he wants to hold her. He clenches his fists. "Everything was faded, and dim. Debden was like that, but worse. I hated it, hated training. Hated the fact that I was sending men off to die." That lump was back, making his voice waver. He clears his throat and carries on. "At first, getting your letters made things better, but then… they didn't. I read them, but I just didn't _feel_ anything." Sam's eyes seem suspiciously shiny and he can't stand it. He pushes away from the wall and walks a few steps away. But he's not finished, and she deserves the rest as well, so he turns back. "I couldn't feel anything at all." She takes a step towards him and he steps back. He doesn't _deserve_ her touch.

"Sam… you are so good and so kind…" She makes a dismissive motion of her head. "Yes, you are. You deserved better than me, you _deserve_ better." He takes a deep breath in through his nose, trying to steady himself before he breaks down completely. Then he takes a second one. "I knew that you would never see it that way." She's nodding, eyes steady on his. "So, I had to do something… unforgivable."

"So, you cheated on me." She looks away then. He bites the inside of his cheek.

"But, that wasn't enough." She looks at him from the corner of her eye. "The war, the distance…" He rubs at the spot just above his left eyebrow that has started aching, a fierce, sharp ache that is a devil to get rid of. "I let you go, without giving you the chance to decide if you wanted to be let go." He looks her straight in the eye. "I took away your choice, just like…" he trails off, but she fills in the blanks.

"Just like my parents always have." Once, she had told him her greatest fear was being trapped in a life where she never had a say, where her whole existence was decided for her without her wishes ever being considered – like the first 20 odd years had been. And he had used that against her, pin-pointed her weakness with a pilot's accuracy and fired home without hesitation.

"I'm sorry Sam." He swallows hard. "I'm sorry that I treated you so badly, that I cruelly and deliberately hurt you, just because I was hurting myself and didn't know what to do about it. I'm sorry." He is looking at her as he speaks but when she turns towards him, he hangs his head. "I'm sorry." He can't seem to stop but doesn't have anything else to say. "I'm so sorry."

He's unprepared for Sam to touch him, to wrap her hand around his upper arm. He pulls back reflexively, but she doesn't let go. "Andrew." Her eyes are bright and intense on his. "I forgive you."

His ears are ringing. The ache above his eye intensifies. "What?"

"I forgive you." Her voice is firm and steady.

He shakes his head. "How…?"

She looks down and then smiles before looking back up. "Because I choose to."

He tilts his head back to look at the sky, the blue, blue sky. His eyes are burning, there is pain now across his cheek bones as well and his skin feels tight. "Andrew." He can't look at her, afraid he'll crumble. "Andrew, you didn't stop seeing colour because you forgot how to love." He jerks his gaze down to hers in confusion. She is blurry and he's dreadfully afraid he's about to cry. Her hand moves from his arm, to his chest, _to his heart._ "It's because you forgot how to love yourself."

"There's not much to love about me Sam." His voice is thin and tight.

Sam shakes her head. "I have to disagree with you on that." Her voice is gentle, her gaze is too, and it is all too much. His face works, and he tries to hide in his hands, but Sam is having none of it. Her hands are behind his head, pulling it down to rest on her shoulder, and he is holding her tightly, too tightly, but he can't let go. He sobs, jerky, ugly sobs and Sam just strokes his hair and murmurs softly to him. He can't hear her over the noise he's making, but her voice is grounding him, and he tries to control his breathing. It takes longer than he would like but eventually the sobs have lessened, though he is still crying, and his breath still hitches. Sam runs her fingers through his hair again, nails scraping his scalp. He shudders, and relaxes his grip on her cardigan. His fingers ache.

"I forgive you…" He is finally able to hear what she is whispering. "I forgive you." He sighs, feeling calm, _not numb_ ,for the first time in, well, in forever. "I forgive you." Her hand rests on the back of his neck, and she turns her head slightly. "But." He thinks he feels her lips brush against his neck and shivers again. "You need to forgive yourself."

He laughs. Or sobs. It's hard to tell. "I've done some awful things." His voice is hoarse, and muffled by her shoulder.

"I know." He voice is soft still, but matter of fact. "But not unforgivable things."

"Oh Sam!" He swallows down more tears. "I don't _deserve_ you."

She huffs a small laugh, her shoulder jerking against his face. "That's _my_ decision to make." And he nods, because it is.

Eventually he pulls away, embarrassed. "I seem to always be crying on you." He scrubs at his face with his sleeve, unable to locate a handkerchief. A square of white linen appears in front of him. _Trust Sam._ He wipes his eyes. "I'll clean this and give it back to you," he promises as he places it in his pocket.

"Don't bother." Sam shrugs. "It's yours." He stares at her, embarrassment forgotten. She flushes slightly, _God, how he wishes he could see that delicate pink._ "Well, I wasn't going to throw it out." Her voice is cross in her embarrassment. "Waste of a good handkerchief." Her chin is up, defensive. He pulls the crumbled ball from his pocket and straightens it out. There, in the corner, are his initials in dark blue thread.

"Thank you, Sam." He tries to put all the sincerity he feels into his voice. Sam narrows her eyes, uncertain if he is joking, before seemingly concluding that he is serious at which point she smiles. A proper, sunshiny, Sam Stewart smile and he feels something hot and painful in his chest. He tries to smile back, but his lips tremble and he has to look away. Look away from her brightness, from her warmth. _From her yellow._ He looks out to sea, warm blue with golden light dancing on the surface. "Thank you," he whispers.

He walks her home, careful not to touch her. She may have forgiven him, but he's not going to run before he can walk. _"You need to forgive yourself."_

She agrees to see him again, the next day, _as friends_ he says, because he suddenly realises that they have never really been friends and he wants to be her friend, even if he can never be anything else. He wants it more than anything and _that's a good feeling._

His father, when he comes home, looks him over carefully and then suggests dinner out, making Andrew believe he looks as fragile as he feels. He declines the offer, preferring the warmth and comfort of home. Over dinner ( _surely rationing will end soon?_ ) Andrew asks his father something he should probably have asked a long time ago. Well, not so much asks as states, bluntly and without preamble. _I was good at conversation once, I'm certain._ "I always thought that you fell in love and that was it – colours everywhere." His father is looking at him as if he has lost his mind, which may be true. "What I mean is, I thought… I thought that when I fell in love, I would be able to see every colour."

Dad's gaze is sympathetic, if somewhat amused. "Doesn't quite work like that."

"Well I'm being to realise that now!" It feels good to have Dad tease him like this. The humour in Andrew's voice is real, for the first time in months. "Mum said…" Andrew trails off as the smile slips from his father's face. He pauses, and then continues. "Mum said falling in love with you gave her shades." His father nods, but doesn't speak. Andrew thinks he should have probably waited until after they had finished eating to have this conversation as it doesn't look Dad's going to finish his food. "I'm sorry Dad, shouldn't have brought it up." Why was it that every conversation with his father seemed to venture into territory that was painful for them both. _Still such a fool._

"Before your mother…" his father pauses, considering his words carefully. "Well… the war…" he shrugs slightly. "Then I met her." He fixes Andrew with a straight look, "there wasn't a sudden flash of colour. Just green." Green. How he would love to see green again. "Over time, I began to see other colours, ones that I could see… before. Ones I couldn't." Andrew almost wants to tell his father to stop, the recollection seems so painful, but selfishly he lets him continue. "Eventually, realised this was it. Asked her to marry me."

Andrew licks his lips. "Was that it?"

His father chews the corner of his mouth. "Not quite." Andrew quirks his eyebrows in unconscious imitation of his father. "Never saw the colour brown until you were born."

 _Brown?_ "Brown?" He knows his voice reflects his disappointment, but really, _brown_?

His father makes a considering noise as he nods. "The colour of your eyes." It makes a certain kind of sense, but it's not the colour he would have liked for himself. Although, he thinks, it's probably appropriate, dark and muddy. His father clears his throat, and Andrew feels ashamed off how easily his thoughts have become angry and bitter. Brown. _"You forgot how to love yourself."_

He remembers then. "I can see brown, or, well, I _could_ , before." His father does that thing with his mouth.

"Happens. When you fall in love." Andrew suddenly flushes, embarrassed that he is making Dad have a conversation that is clearly very awkward for him. He opens his mouth to say that they don't need to continue, but Dad is talking. "Starts with their colour. Then your own. Then variations of." His father smiles slightly. "Then shades."

Andrew tries to remember when he could first see brown, tries to remember and feels giddy at the image of Sam, cleaning a tanker in brown overalls. _As long ago as that?_

Later that night, he sits before the blank sheet of paper, and can't remember a time when words came easily. He thinks of Sam. How optimistic she is. How bright and lovely. Too bright and lovely for him. He can feel the greyness creeping over him, dragging him down, telling him he doesn't _deserve her._ _"That's my decision to make."_ He puts pen to paper, and just writes.

He wakes sometime after dawn, awkwardly slumped over his desk. Various joints crack as he straightens up and he's certain his back will never be the same again. Looking at the paper before him, he's not sure it was worth it. Words cover the page, crossing and criss-crossing where he'd tried to use every available bit of space. Not poetry, but a jumble of half-finished thoughts. About himself. About Sam. About Sam and himself together. He crumples it up, frustrated. His conscious stops him from throwing it in the bin, smoothing it out for salvage. He runs his hand through his hair, making it stick up at awkward angles. What is he doing? He has nothing to offer her, just… just himself, and that seems a pretty poor bargain. _"I have to disagree with you on that."_ He can hear her as clearly as if she stands before him. _I want to be enough._ He wants that more than anything. He finds another sheet of paper and tries again.

He wants to tell her the moment he sees her, like a child seeking approval, _Sam! I wrote something!_ But instead, he stays quiet, hugging the knowledge to himself, waiting for the right time.

They walk on the beach and then sit in the car. He asks her what she going to do with herself, now that the war is ending. He asks, because he doesn't know what to do with himself. Sam confesses that she is at a loss as well and he jokes that at least they can 'not know' what to do with themselves together. She smiles, although it is a little watchful and he knows that he needs to tread carefully. He adds, deadpan, that at least that way she gets to still be a part of his father's life and she laughs. The sound lifts that hot, sharp thing in his chest, making it buoyant and light. He wonders if it's his heart.

"Maybe you could write? You used to write reams of poetry" Her suggestion is innocent, she's merely thinking of something for him to do, but it's so close to the mark he can only stare at her. "What?"

"I, er… I wrote something last night. Well, this morning actually." He fumbles in his pocket for the crap of paper. "I don't know as it's any good or not." He looks at anxiously as she begins to read, before deciding he can't bear it and stares, instead, out of the windscreen

 _They've sounded out the last all clear,_

 _And told us, those who made it here,_

 _That very soon we'll hold once more,_

 _Those things that we held dear,_

 _Yet nothing's clear to me,_

 _I gaze, from darkness to a summer haze,_

 _And, though they part,_

 _The clouds of war lead only to uncertain days._

"Do you… do you really think that?" Sam's voice is small and uncertain. It hurts to hear. But he wants to be honest.

"Sometimes." He looks at her then, to see that she is staring at her hands in her lap. "Oh, I'm sorry Sam!" He scrubs his hand across his face. "I have to watch myself – I'm beginning to sound like an old man."

Sam looks at him then, a small smile turning up the corner of her mouth, "Well, you don't look like one." There's admiration in her gaze that warms him from the inside out. He savours the feeling, savours more the pink blush he can see on her cheeks as she realises what she said.

He lets her off the hook. "Let's go to the pub."

Churchill makes the announcement, and everything erupts. People are laughing, crying, dancing. He stands stock still. It finally hits him that this is it. He has made it. He's still alive. Someone grabs him and hugs him before swiftly moving on. Someone else shakes his hand. He is surrounded by people, but feels suddenly lonely. He wants Sam. _Well, come and find me then_ he imagines her saying. So, he does.

She's in the station, talking to his father. He can't help feeling that he's interrupting, but since he started talking before he considered the atmosphere in the room, he doesn't get the chance to find out.

"I'm going to dance all night!" Sam's smile is bright, and he can feel the pang, which can only be hope, in his chest.

"Will you dance with me?" Her chin lifts, in that way she has, as if she is going to war.

"I'll dance with everyone." Hope starts to deflate, and he thinks that maybe he's moved too fast. Then Sam's smile softens, and her gaze is warm, "But especially you." His cheeks ache, his smile is so wide. Behind Sam, he can see his father smiling and he thinks, perhaps, his father has forgiven him too. Dad promises to meet them later, and Sam is running outside, and Andrew is running after her, afraid to let her out of his sight that he might lose her in the crowds.

Sam makes good on her promise and dances with anyone who asks. Andrew forces himself to let her go with good grace, _she's not yours and even if she was, it's her choice._ His reward is that she comes back, each and every time. She comes back, and she dances with him. She dances with him, smiles at him, laughs with him. And he basks in her attention. He's still not certain he deserves it, any of it, but _it's not his choice_ and he respects that. _Sam_ thinks he deserves it, and she is right far more often than he is. So, he accepts her smiles, laughs with her and holds her as close as he dares when they dance. And lets her go when someone asks, and she accepts.

They see his father briefly, though he declines a dance with Sam, looking faintly horrified at the idea, which makes both of them laugh. The celebrations go on and on, the day fading into night, bonfires being lit and bright lanterns glowing on every available surface. They find food at some point, but he can't remember what he's eaten. He only remembers Sam, bright, shiny Sam. Her hair glows in the firelight like a halo, and he wonders if she is in fact an angel sent down to save him. And then laughs at his own imagination.

They're swaying now, rather than dancing. Sam is resting against his chest, and he is holding her indecently close, but it doesn't matter because all the rules seem breakable tonight. Anything seems possible.

"I love you." He murmurs the words into her hair, so soft he wonders if she'll hear. A slight stiffening, a fractional pulling away, tells him that she heard. "I don't expect anything Sam, I just wanted you to know, in case…" He falters, afraid to pressurise her. "It's your choice what you do with it. I just wanted you to know." She relaxes at his words, letting her head rest in the crook of his neck, a space that seems tailor-made for her.

"Well," she is speaking to his neck, her words slightly muffled. "It's much easier to make an informed choice when you have all the facts." He laughs, and then despite his best intentions, brushes a kiss against her hair. She sighs.

"You're tired." He's almost certain that he's the only thing holding her up, has been for the last half an hour or more. "Let me walk you home." She doesn't argue, which only shows how tired she is. He offers her his arm, and is intensely pleased when she takes his hand instead, lacing their fingers together, pressing her palm to his. She wraps her other hand around his upper arm, leaning against him as they walk. He wants this to last forever, but the stumble in her step reminds him how tired she is. They arrive back at her boarding house well before he is ready, but he knows it would be selfish to ask for more.

Sam pulls away from him, but does not let go of his hand. "Andrew?" He looks at her, she's looking at the house. "Did you mean what you said before?" He tilts his head, needing her to be more specific. "When you said that you… well… that you…" Her confidence seems to have failed her at last – intact for the whole war only to crumble at the last. His heart aches, that he did this to Sam.

"I love you Sam. I mean it." He wants her to trust him, but knows he had forfeit the right to ask for that a long time ago. "I always did. Even when…" One shoulder goes up in an awkward shrug. She is looking at him now, and her gaze is uncertain, scared. "Sam… you made, _make_ , the world so bright for me. Even when everything was grey, you were still so bright it hurt."

"And now?" Her voice trembles slightly. He squeezes her hand.

Turning from her, he looks at the house. "Your front door is red." He looks back at her from the corner of his eye. She looks at him sceptically.

"You've been here before." He laughs and turns back towards her.

"Your uniform is green, olive-green." She is frustrated now. "Your eyes are brown, a warm, chocolate brown. Your hair pure gold." He reaches out, tucks a stray strand behind her ear. "Your cheeks are a rosy pink." He trails his fingers across the blush that is warming her skin. "Your lips…" He suddenly remembers he's supposed to be taking things slow and pulls his hand back as though stung. She catches his hand in hers and holds it her face.

"My lips…?" Her voice is husky, it does indescribable things to him.

He licks his own and nearly moans when her gaze drops to his mouth. "Sam." She looks back into his eyes and he is drowning. "It's your choice." He breaths the words, wanting her but wanting her to want him too.

She smiles, with lips that tremble. He is trembling too, his hands in hers, one against her cheek, the other by her side. "My choice," she whispers. "Then I choose…" She lifts up onto her toes, and then her lips are on his and he can't think anymore, only feel and the world isn't grey anymore, but bright and warm.

* * *

A/N

This grew into something of a monster. It was meant to be a small one shot but... Does it count as a fix-it AU?

I think I'm ok with how it turned out. I originally posted this in pieces, but then decided that it didn't make much sense like that so here it is in its entirety.


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